


Operation: Nightingale

by bttrmllw



Category: Naruto
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Haruno Sakura, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mystery, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29174685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bttrmllw/pseuds/bttrmllw
Summary: AU. Iron country, a once neutral territory, is believed to be plotting a large-scale war.(Alternatively: Haruno Sakura does some espionage, Uchiha Sasuke tries to atone for his sins, and they inadvertently save the shinobi alliance. Go figure.)
Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke
Comments: 44
Kudos: 52





	1. land of iron

**Author's Note:**

> someone tell me to _stop writing_. also why do i have so many fics where sasuke does not know it is sakura? *blinks hard* anyways. this is a story i have finished but am doing a rewrite for! if you’ve read it elsewhere, prepare for some plot overhauls ;) sexual situations and shoddy historical content abound. read at your own risk. /cough.

✾

.

“It was apparently Konoha Shinobi.”

Caramel eyes harden at the report. Tsunade regards the quartet of porcelain masks before her, lips pursed behind laced fingers. Bloodstains crackle beneath her nails, her fingertips are raw from unending surgeries. “Konoha?” she repeats, disbelieving. “Under whose orders?”

The Anbu exchange silent glances. Tiger speaks: “They say yours, Hokage-sama.”

“Bull shit,” Tsunade growls. “Who is spreading these rumors?”

Fox punches his open palm (“We’ll find out, ‘ttebayo!”) as Rabbit responds: “From what we’ve gathered, Iron seems to believe Konoha is behind the attack on their samurai.” 

The Godaime frowns, licks her lips. “What proof do they have that it was Leaf nin?”

It is Dog who steps forward and drops the hitai-ate onto her desk. They fall with the distinct ‘clack’ of metal plates—three forehead protectors with the Konoha insignia. “The accused shinobi are in custody.”

Before Tsunade can demand to see them, Rabbit cuts in: “Shi—Godaime-sama,” her voice cracks, “they have confessed.”

.

It is no secret that the shinobi world is wracked with turmoil.

Even Konoha, once an abdominal stronghold, begins to crumble beneath the weight of deceit and seeds of vengeance sewn despite peace treaties and negotiations. 

Since the Great War against Akatsuki, times have been tough. Lives were destroyed, villages decimated. Despite the Countries coming together in face of the greater enemy, distrust lingers; resentment waits.

The Village Hidden in the Leaves is suspended, frozen and waiting to shatter.

The economy is hit first: wallets are pinched from lack of funds coming in, shops close down from a lack of customers. For the first time since the Fourth War just over five years ago, people remember the whisperings of rebellion, of invasion, and fear travelling once again.

Morale dwindles. Belief in Konoha, in the safety it provides, wanes.

Fire Country teeters on the edge of what could very well be the next Great Battle; the possibility so tangible that the faintest breeze could tip the scales in either direction. 

The only lead they have is what Intel has discovered after _weeks_ of reconnaissance: a rapidly militarizing regime under the ruler of Iron Country, Mifune Tetsumi.

The Land of Iron keeps mostly to itself, touting neutrality over all other Countries—its role in previous wars that of bystander. In fact, when faced with the possibility of taking a side or otherwise forced to take a stand, Iron Country belays the message that they will not be assuaged, often sending any request for aid running back home with bad news.

That is, until the Fourth Shinobi Battle—the war against Akatsuki.

.

“We did it.”

“We hunted the samurai. We knew they would be returning from aiding Iwa.”

Tsunade glares at the two jounin, locked behind their respective cells. Neither appears perturbed in being captured, in being blamed for treason, in breaching the Shinobi Alliance. Their third teammate, their leader, was killed in the assault. “Who gave you the order?”

There is no hesitation when they answer: “You, Hokage-sama.”

.

The fact that Iron is responsible for the impending doom currently hanging over Konoha is _ridiculous_.

It is also their only lead.

“Not much is known about Iron,” the Godaime declares, bridging her fingers and scrutinizing the young woman across the way. “We don’t even know if the rumor is true but we can’t miss any chances. This is a delicate matter and I cannot entrust this mission to anyone else.” She exhales harshly through her nose, pushes a scroll forward. “This is your new identity. Read it, memorize it, become her. You will have to actively suppress your chakra to do so. If Iron Country gets wind that Konoha is snooping around, we will lose whatever upper-hand we have left.” Amber eyes soften. “We do not know how long this mission will be.”

Indefinite.

Tsunade pauses, eyes her apprentice for any sign of apprehension, hesitation, anything that might give Tsunade reason to call this off. The young medic does not waver and Tsunade is both pleased and disappointed in equal measure. A shallow sigh, then, "Do you accept your mission, Haruno Sakura?"

Sakura, whose green eyes never lose their nerve, nods. "Yes, Hokage-sama.” 

Once the young woman is gone, Tsunade releases a tense breath and slumps into her seat. 

Is sending her Head Medic on this assignment a mistake? Word has it that Iron Country needs a medic to treat an epidemic spreading through the capital city. Tsunade has gone over the candidates for such a mission: Shizune, pregnant. Hyuuga and Yamanaka, Clan Heirs and ineligible. 

That leaves only Haruno Sakura.

Logic does not make the decision any easier to accept.

Tsunade closes her eyes, hoping the lead is not false, hoping she is not putting the life of her apprentice—her successor—at risk.

.

_Name: Okura Natsuko  
Hair: Brown  
Eyes: Green  
Village: Degarashi, Tea Country _

Sakura watches the brunette peer from the curtains of her caravan as it bumps across the border and along the winding road into Fire Country.

She has been tracking the carriage for days, committing to memory the young doctor’s mannerisms. Thus far, nothing about the civilian is remarkable. Sakura wonders what Doctor Okura has done in her past to be summoned to the Land of Iron—quite practically across the stretch of the continent.

Sakura is nothing if not thorough and has done her research on notable medics, civilian and shinobi alike. The name Okura Natsuko has only appeared in newspapers within the last four months. A Miracle Doctor, they say.

Konoha is not familiar with Miss Okura’s reputation, but perhaps that is because the Leaf has no need for civilian doctors?

Sakura frowns, thoughtful in her surveillance. “She keeps looking outside the carriage.”

“I don’t imagine a civilian from Tea gets out much. Perhaps she’s curious about the scenery,” her captain intones, keeping leisure pace as they leap through the canopy.

A simple answer to a simple question, but there is a swiftness in the way Miss Okura peers out the window that makes Sakura think otherwise.

“It’s as if she expects a disruption,” she begins.

Kakashi tutts at her side. “Imagine a civilian who has never left her country—a small one at that—traversing for days across shinobi territory.”

Sakura worries her lip.

“You have to remember she is not a shinobi, she’s afraid.”

“I suppose...”

“Are you practicing her mannerisms already?”

Green eyes slide to her former teacher, mouth widening into mock offense. “Are you making fun of me?”

Something twinkles in Kakashi’s visible dark eye but he does not reply. He doesn’t need to.

Sakura shoves him off the branch.

His chuckle is lost to the trees.

.

On the evening before the carriage passes Fire Country’s borders, Sakura makes her move.

All it takes is a crushed herb mixed into Doctor Okura’s favorite—chamomile—tea and the civilian wakes the next morning with a letter that says her services are no longer needed. Her escort will return her to Tea Country.

.

The Land of Iron resembles nothing of the other shinobi countries Sakura has ever seen. Her mission dossier suggests for her to dress warmly. She stares at the grey horizon flashing with lightning and wryly notes the _suggestion_ in the scroll is a severe understatement. 

Snowy peaks form the range—Sanrou, a trio of massive mountains, stand guard over Iron’s capital: Tekkyou.

Intimidating, jagged shadows disappear into ominous clouds as if all of Iron Country is beneath a perpetual storm. A harbinger of doom if Sakura has ever seen one.

"Are you doing alright in there, Okura-san?"

Her still green eyes peer at the man ( _Ebisu_ , she recalls) leading the horses. He is bundled in layers, familiar with Iron Country territory. Sakura has had very little interaction with him and, luckily, so has Miss Okura. If Ebisu notices the change in his rider, he does not mention it.

“Yes,” Sakura answers with a chapped smile. “Just a bit cold.”

Ebisu chuckles, a deep and echoing sound that somehow breaks through the howling wind. “You’ll get used to these storms soon enough,” he assures, risking a glance back at her. Dark eyes peer beneath thick brows, patches of unruly hair dotting the lower portion of his face. “But the culture might take some getting used to for someone from a civilian town.”

Before she can respond, he returns his attention to the narrow cliff-side road, much to Sakura’s relief. He guides the caravan expertly across the narrow path, not at all perturbed by the snowfall. She pulls the hood of her thin cloak over dark locks and closes the curtain.

_“That’s a decent henge, but you’re looking more rotund than the real Ebisu_.”

_Kakashi scoffs, turns sideways and places a hand on his stomach. “What are you saying exactly? That my henge is sub-par or that I’ve gained weight?”_

_Sakura grins as she wrings her freshly dyed hair. “Whichever is more offensive.”_

Already, she misses home.

.

The manor looms, stark against the skyline. Its tiers mimic the lightning bolts that illuminate the fortress in all its indomitable glory. 

Her caravan door opens and Sakura is greeted by a round-faced man with no hair on his head save for a well-groomed mustache. He is covered in layers of fabric, _hakama_ and _kimono_ startlingly bright shades that do not match his blank expression. His floor-length _haori_ serves as further protection against the weather, though he does not seem bothered by the thick snow that encroaches on his sandals.

The man says nothing when he offers her his hand. She takes it, watching her step as the foot-stirrup below the carriage is coated in snow.

“Okura-san, your journey was bearable, I trust?”

Sakura glances up, _and up and up_ , until her eyes find the face of the leader of Iron. She smiles a pretty smile, demure and practiced. “It was enjoyable. I have never travelled so far through shinobi territory.”

Mifune Tetsumi is a tall man with bandages wrapped around his head. His long hair, peppered with snow, remains unbound, falling nearly to his waist. He dons a robe of what appears to be the softest fur, all in grays and black, in contrast to the cheerier garb of his servants. Broad shoulders and a chiseled face—he is the embodiment of iron. 

“Good,” he responds.

Even his voice is a hammer forging steel.

“You have come far, take an evening to rest. Your handmaiden will escort you to your quarters. Please, make yourself at home.”

Mifune has a way of speaking that singles out one person in a room, as if he has no interest whatsoever in any other living being. 

“I will introduce you to my army in the morning. Truly, we are thankful for your arrival, they are in dire need of your aid.”

“Then should we wait?” Sakura entreats. “If they need medical attention I can’t rest easy until I’ve seen them.”

His expression morphs into a magnanimous smile, wrinkles around his eyes betray his age. “A devotion to your cause—that is something I greatly admire. You may see them,” Mifune declares. “Your handmaid will escort you to their grounds. I have a matter I need to attend to but tomorrow morning, Okura-san, I shall require your company for breakfast.”

A polite enough request, though the order beneath his words leaves no room for refusal.

Sakura bows her head in understanding.

No one moves while Mifune retreats into his fortress. Only once the last footfalls of his boots disappear do those in the pavilion breathe. Vibrant servants move about the area, immediately taking in Ebisu, tending to the horse, emptying the carriage—

“Okura-sama?” a timid of voice lilts at her side.

Sakura turns to see a young girl ( _No more than fourteen_ , Sakura surmises) standing with her hands hidden in the wide sleeves of her kimono. Bandages wrap around her head as well, her long hair twisted into a braid falls over her shoulder. She bows at the waist, the motion is both precise and delicate—the soft echo of a bell.

“I would be pleased to show you the way to the—”

“Please,” Sakura gently cuts in, “call me Natsuko. No need for formalities.”

The handmaid startles, straightens up, and turns a terrible beet red that matches her obi. She nods. “This way,” she hesitates as if fighting against her tongue, “...Natsuko-sama.”

Sakura opens her mouth to object to the honorific but decides against it. 

While her belongings are sent to her chambers, the handmaiden—she refuses to disclose her name, insisting Sakura refer to her as Nine—leads Sakura down a wooden staircase that creaks with every step and through a dark tunnel. What Sakura hopes is melted snow and not leakage from pipes drips down the walls, threatening to put out the multiple sconces that light the way.

The entire floor is submerged in at least two fingers’ depth of sludge.

_‘You are advised to dress warmly’ huh?_ Sakura mental scoffs as she ignores the cool sensation squishing between her toes. _Helpful_.

They reach a pass where the air becomes biting cold and Sakura’s breath rises before her eyes. A large iron door blocks their path and Nine lifts a tiny hand to knock. 

From high above, a narrow slit opens, a pair of eyes peers down. “Who dares strike the anvil?”

“A humble hammer of Lord Mifune.”

The massive door opens.

Once inside, Sakura meets who she can only assume is Mifune’s right hand. He wears the plated armor of a samurai, horned helmet atop his head. He updates her on the warriors’ conditions.

“It’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before,” the man admits, gaze surveying the patients in the sick bay. 

Cots are laid out side by side and filled with pale, almost translucent samurai.

The lieutenant’s eyes settle on her. “Help them.”

An order.

Sakura suppresses the urge to roll her eyes and instead affects a properly timid manner, dipping her head forward in understanding. “Of course, Lieutenant.” 

She busies herself with making everyone’s acquaintance but the samurai seem too disoriented to even notice a presence in the room. Grabbing Natsuko’s journals, Sakura takes note of the conditions:

Pale, shivering, unresponsive pupils, cool to the touch.

Moving from cot to cot, Sakura resists the urge to use her chakra to search their bodies. Natsuko is a civilian—civilian measures must be taken.

When sleep weighs heavily on her eyelids, she slips her journal into her bag, heads for the exit—

“You’re still here?”

—and steps back, fingers grazing where her weapons holster would be attached on her thigh. “Lieutenant,” she greets, arm falling limp at her side.

He does not bother with pleasantries. “It’s been four hours.”

_Four hours?!_

“Is a handmaid with you?” the lieutenant asks as he removes his helmet. “This fortress can be confusing.”

An angled jaw, the aquiline nose, dark hair, darker eyes.

“Yes,” Sakura breathes, working to keep her voice steady. “Nine is with me.” In his gaze she spots her dark hair. 

“Good.” He regards her with a frown, the expression painfully familiar, before muttering ‘goodnight’ and striding away.

Haruno Sakura watches as Uchiha Sasuke disappears around the corner.

.

Nine has fallen asleep leaning against the wall and Sakura wakes her, intent on getting as far away from Uchiha Sasuke as possible. If Nine finds her eagerness to leave alarming, she does not mention it. Even so, Sakura would likely be too engrossed in her thoughts to notice.

His presence here could very well ruin her plans—does he recognize her? There is nothing in his expression that hints at even a flash of recollection. (Sakura knows this is for the best, and yet

_and yet_

it infuriates her.)

The young woman sighs when she finally reaches her designated quarters, sinking onto the surprisingly soft mattress provided to her. It does little to ease the sudden tension in her back and shoulders.

Sakura hunches over, rests her elbows on her thighs, and drops her face into trembling hands. What should she do?

Nobody has seen hide nor hair of the missing-nin in seven years. _Seven years!_ She was still a chuunin! He was presumed dead after he finally managed to kill his older brother and yet there he is, hiding amidst the storms of the Land of Iron.

How long has he been here? 

What is his incentive?

Sakura is glad she has been suppressing her chakra all along, but this does not grant her even the chance of using it for any reason. Even if he does not recognize her face nor her chakra (and she tamps down the rage this hypothetical brings her), he will still _know she is not a civilian_ —

KNOCK!

She nearly jumps from the bed, stares at the door. One loud knock, an announcement and a demand. “Yes?” 

The door opens to reveal General Mifune. Wrapped in his fur coat, he blocks what little torch light might have spilled into the shadowy confines of her room. “I hope I’m not bothering you, Okura-san,” he begins, voice deep, a tremor reverberating through his bones. “I understand you were able to assess my men?”

She nods—“Yes.”—slipping easily into medic-mode. This, at least, is a good familiar. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. General, may I ask why you have not requested a shinobi doctor?”

“Okura-san, I sought your aid not for your skill but for your ability to conduct thorough research. Shinobi medics...well I have reason to believe I am being targeted by shinobi. I will not risk my men’s safety when there are other options. Right now, I cannot trust any shinobi village.”

“But did Iron not join the Shinobi Alliance—?”

“What does a civilian doctor from Tea know of the Shinobi Alliance?”

She withers. “I speak out of turn,” Sakura submits, releasing the fist she is unaware she makes with her hand.

Mifune studies her as if deciding how to proceed. “You have the aid of my entire medical staff at your disposal,” he says. “Your journals. They have an answer. I know it. I do not expect you to bring back the men already too-far gone, but—”

“General Mifune,” Sakura interrupts. “I am a doctor and researcher equally. I will do what I can to help those men. You have my word.”

His smile is somehow both easy and off-putting, as if he is enjoying his own private joke. “Okura-san, you are trembling.”

“I—“ she forces herself to still. “I am very passionate about what I do,” she answers. “I’m sorry General, but it’s been a trying week. I am quite tired.”

The expression on his face is unreadable. “I understand. I admire that passion in you.” A tilt of his head grants a sliver of light to pass along his profile, accentuate the sharp features of his silhouette. “Good night.”

It is minutes after he leaves and his footsteps fade that Sakura finally allows herself to breathe.

* * *

The clang of metal echoes off the stone walls, filling the battle chamber with life.

Sleet hair is slick with sweat, fangs bared as his opponent forces him back into a corner. He is quick however, and before long the fanged samurai frees himself from the trap, allowing a smirk to tilt the edge of his lips. “Don’t go soft on my account, Sasuke,” he taunts, earning a warning glare from his counterpart.

The Uchiha responds with a lunge and swing of his arm, his step forceful and demanding. His partner has little time to decide whether it would benefit from dodging left or right, but Sasuke knows his opponent—

Just as he predicts, Suigetsu dodges left, giving Sasuke an opening to twist around and catch his sword against the sleet-haired man’s neck. A strand of pale hair falls to the ground.

"Don't get cocky, Suigetsu."

“Ugh, you got me,” the loser concedes, dropping his sword and lifting his hands in surrender. “Geez, you really need to lighten up.”

“Lightening up won’t keep you alive,” Sasuke snaps, re-sheathing his katana.

“Being an ass won’t keep you alive,” Suigetsu grumbles without missing a beat. Upon meeting his superior’s glower, Suigetsu rolls his eyes. “Have you heard?” he changes the subject as he picks up his sword from the cobblestone floor. “The doctor’s finally here—took her long enough, eh?”

Sasuke runs a towel over his face.

"You think she'll be able to stop this? Hell no am I trying to go out that way. Rather be on the battlefield."

"I don't know," the Uchiha drawls with obvious disinterest, moving to the corner of the chambers where he discarded his tunic. "She didn't seem particularly special in any way."

"You met her?”

"Does it matter?"

A quiet part of him insists that it _does_ matter. Those _eyes—_ he knows those eyes, doesn’t he? Even then, Sasuke is not acquainted with many (any) civilians. Truth be told, he remembers the crackle and hum of chakra much better than he does people themselves. How many people has he seen in his life-time? Both in reality and in his nightmares? She is just a civilian. Plenty of people have green eyes. _But not that specific—_

“Dammit, Uchiha.” Suigetsu grouses, rubbing at the line of red that stains his skin: a cut. “Have some control.”

Sasuke, already retreating to his quarters, glances over his shoulder. “Be quicker next time.”

.

The corridors are abandoned, the other men already fast asleep. 

Sasuke walks along the twisting halls, autonomous in his trek. Judging by the iciness in the air, the cold that burns as much as it chills, it is well into the evening, perhaps early morning. Darkness from the barred windows merge with the stone walls; he walks through empty space, an endless trail of solitude and quiet. 

Upon entering his room and falling onto his cot, his muscles seize. They burn beneath his skin, inflamed and tense, and Sasuke stares unseeingly at the ceiling, trying to wrest away the pain in his joints. It always passes, after a while.

What doesn’t pass, however, are the thoughts creeping from the crevices of his mind—thoughts that he pushes down into the depths with sheer force of will. But late at night, when is he all alone in the stillness and afterglow of training, he has no strength.Thoughts of his travels, his accomplishments, his mistakes—his comrades and foes, those he has wronged (there are so, so many), his brother…

Sasuke closes his eyes and feels the vestiges of sleep hang over-head.

He has been in Iron Country for the better part of six years. 

After defeating his brother and learning the truth of his clan, of Konoha, he really had no idea what to do with himself. A part of him wanted to return to the village, but it didn’t feel like his village anymore. He had changed and it had changed and they were both too different to ever belong in the same sentence again. 

Naruto belongs in Konoha. Sakura belongs in Konoha. But he? He does not belong there. He has not for a long time.

Where does that leave him?

Uchiha Sasuke just wants to do what he can to atone for the blood-splattered history of his people. He wants to make things right. And that leads him to the Land of Iron, where whisperings of a rebellion rise like smoke from a fire.

Mifune’s son attempted to kill him, and Mifune struck him down—his own kin. His _heir._

Sasuke recognizes those corrupt with power. He has faced them enough—Orochimaru, the Elders—to know the look in those eyes that seek nothing but _more_. He will do whatever he can to put a stop to it; he will not allow other families, other villages, to be torn apart by it.

So he bides his time among Mifune’s samurai because Uchiha Sasuke may be many things but above all he is patient.

He will wait.

.

✾


	2. in the shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK SO. i promise i’m still working on Synergy II, but since this whole fic is already complete and undergoing massive edits, it’s just so much easier to write for *sobs*. I hope that is ok. ~~and i have other wips that are itching to get written why whywhwuwaehowadjo~~
> 
> also i did mention that this is going through a plot overhaul, yes? i have actually planned it out now so i can say with complete confidence that if you’ve read this before *stares at the people who have* there is going to be quite a bit that is _completely different_ (: but also some scenes that are totally the same. here we go~

✾

.

Morning arrives as welcome as a hail storm. Sakura pries open a tired eye to glance at the large window. Not a hail storm, she realizes. The pounding is coming from her door.

Her words are muffled into her pillow and she turns her head to stare at the source of the sound.

“Okura-sama?” a tentative voice breaches the wooden barricade.

Sakura sighs, a noise of assent escaping her. When Nine cracks the door open, the medic sits up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Is something wrong?” she inquires, brushing brown locks from her face and scowling as her fingers tangle at the ends.

Nine slips her hands into her kimono sleeves, bends in a shallow bow. “No,” she says softly, straightening up. She is a delicate wind-chime, her movements light, precise, and soothing. “General Mifune has requested your presence for breakfast. Shall I,“ she pauses, blinks at Sakura, “let him know you would prefer to continue to sleep?”

Breakfast? Verdant eyes jump back to the window where the only light is an occasional flash that crackles across the sky. “No, no. I’m happy to join him but...what time is it?”

“Just about six in the morning, Okura-sa—”

“Natsuko,” the medic corrects.

Nine flushes, lowers her head once more. “Yes, Natsuko-sama. Do you require my assistance?”

“I think I can manage,” Sakura answers with a crooked smile.

The handmaid nods, shuts the door.

After a few more bouts of Nine knocking and gently asking Sakura if she is ready, the medic finally extricates herself from the warmth of her bed and changes into a pair of black pants and a long-sleeved turtleneck, biting back her shiver. She slips her arms into a plain gray tunic that falls past her hips and steps into dark boots.

A glance at the mirror has her contemplating using a henge to further alter her appearance, but she thinks better of it. Instead, Sakura reverses the flow of her chakra, suppressing it entirely.

When she reaches her door, Nine jolts upright from leaning against the corridor wall and holds out a fur coat. “From Mifune-sama,” the young girl explains.

Sakura gladly accepts, tugging it on and relishing the warmth before following her handmaiden to the dining quarters.

.

Tales of General Mifune’s manner vary from person to person but there is one thing that remains constant: his stoicness, as quiet and cold as the mountains guarding his home.

But as Sakura watches him at the table, interacting rather exuberantly with his wait staff, she struggles to reconcile the rumors to the man.

“Ah, Okura-san!” Mifune greets with a disarming grin. “Have a seat.”

She does so, noting the place setting for one other at the table. “I apologize if I kept you waiting,” Sakura replies with a demure smile. “And please, call me Natsuko.”

“Nonsense,” the general insists with a wave of his hand, “in fact, you are the first. We are still awaiting another. Now tell me, Natsuko-san, did you sleep well?”

There is something in his face that sets her at ill-ease; his smile borders on lecherous, his eyes catch the torchlights. She fights the urge to squirm under the intensity of his attention. “I slept well enough,” she answers, forgoing polite formalities, “though the mattress is a bit softer than I am accustomed to.” As if to prove her point, she twists in her seat, grasping the back of her chair until a satisfying ‘pop’ releases the tension in her spine.

Mifune arches a single thick brow, leans forward, eyes taking in every aspect of her face like a man starved for company. “Is that so?” he demures, voice dropping an octave. “Natsu-san, you only need to let me know if you’d prefer something _firmer—_ ”

"Am I interrupting?"

Both occupants turn to the guest entering the hall with all the self-assuredness of aristocracy.

“Not at all, Lieutenant,” Mifune answers, straightening up in his seat and gesturing at the empty setting across from Sakura. “Okura-san, this is my second: Uchiha Sasuke. I trust him with my men and my life—but not my women.”

Sakura exhales through her nose at what she assumes is a joke. “We’ve met,” she declares, then inclines her head as the missing-nin approaches the table. “Though he did not mention his name.”

Sasuke makes no indication in having heard anyone speak. He simply pulls back the chair and languidly sits (and Sakura inwardly scoffs at his clan breeding—does he have to still be so impeccable even now?). When he does glance up, his eyes lock onto hers so suddenly Sakura does not have a hope, a moment, to redirect her gaze.

“You didn’t ask,” he says pointedly.

There is static in the air, the makings of a chidori.

Sakura looks away and reaches for her cup of tea. “I’ve heard much about you, Uchiha-san.”

No one is sure what exactly she means, but the implication is there for anyone brave enough to take it.

“Good or bad?” their host inquires.

Green eyes look askance at Mifune who appears far-too amused at the situation. Sakura shrugs a single shoulder as she brings her cup of tea— _chamomile_ —to her mouth. “Both.”

“Tell us something of each,” the general insists merrily, extending his chopsticks to help himself to some soybeans.

Sakura purses her lips, licks a stray drop of tea. Her eyes study the array of food between them—rice, miso soup, fermented soybeans, pickled vegetables, grilled fish—as she pretends at thoughtfulness. Then: “I heard looking into his eyes means death.”

“Is that so?” Mifune hums around a mouthful of rice. “Are you brave enough to see for yourself?”

Sakura breathes in.

Green strikes charcoal—a proverbial fire sparks to life and it is as if that little flame draws all the air from her lungs, such is the ferocity in the Uchiha’s eyes.

(“Well,” Mifune presses, “what do you see, Natsuko-san?”)

Sakura breathes out: “Regret.”

Mifune chuckles, the sound clapping thunder. “Well she’s got you pegged, eh, Uchiha? Now,” the man insists, “tell us something good.”

“I believe, General Mifune, what I said is both good and bad, depending on who you ask.”

“How could dying possibly be _good?”_ Sasuke scoffs, unimpressed. He has not touched anything on the table.

Sakura does not miss a beat. “Have you never considered that death might be merciful?”

Sasuke regards her like she is the most interesting thing he’s seen in years.

And Sakura cannot stand it. She clears her throat: “General, would you mind passing the honey?”

Breakfast passes smoothly enough with the trio speaking of nothing particularly important. Well, Sasuke does not speak at all. Conversation dances around Natsuko’s home and history and Sakura answers politely enough: (“It is beautiful this time of year” and “Oh you should see how terribly hot it gets late summer” and “My great grandfather was a shinobi but mostly we’re a family of farmers”).

“Until you,” Mifune teases.

Sakura grins. “Until me.”

“You have just recently gained a reputation as a remarkable doctor. Tell me, what first interested you in medicine?”

This, Sakura can answer truthfully: “I saw what war could do. I didn’t want to be useless.”

“Tea is untouched by shinobi politics,” Sasuke surprises the table by mentioning.

Sakura blinks his way, nods. “Yes, but your home is our border. You don’t think shinobi make it to my homeland? You don’t think my people get hurt?”

The missing-nin scoffs, the sound so reminiscent of days waiting on a red bridge for a sensei who was always late that Sakura has to bite back her grin.

“Iron is a great distance away from—” Sasuke begins,

but Sakura interrupts: “I don’t mean Iron.”

There is a momentary storm in his eyes. In that shred of time, as quick as the flap of a hummingbird's wing, Sakura can see the depths of his agony; when was the last time she has seen him look _so_ _human?_

Sasuke blinks and it is gone, expression smooth as marble. “I have not considered Fire my home in many years,” he confesses.

Sakura does not know how to respond (the memory of the red bridge, the countless mornings she gathered there, turn to ash).

Luckily, she does not have to. Mifune thanks them for joining him, dismisses them, and Sakura takes her leave before Sasuke can even push his chair away from the table.

She pretends she does not feel dark eyes trained on her back.

* * *

The door to Suigetsu’s room bursts open and the snow-haired man scowls at the intrusion, lazily drawing a blanket over both himself and his bare guest.

She is a plain girl with long dark hair and a shapely form. Whatever kohl-liner she wore is smeared around her eyes, the paint on her lips smudged across the boundaries of her mouth ( _and likely on certain other places on,_ Sasuke thinks with mild disdain.)

“So,” Suigetsu greets without a care in the world, “how was breakfast?”

Sasuke glares in response.

“That good, huh?”

“I don’t like the doctor,” the Uchiha announces. He is unsure why he bothers to even tell Suigetsu this, it is neither important nor news. In fact, he is unsure why he is bothered by the doctor at all.

Suigetsu waves a noncommittal hand. “Don’t get your underwear in a twist over some civ,” he suggests. “You’ve got plenty else to distract you.” He finishes the thought with a suggestive grin directed at his escort.

The girl giggles in response and buries her head beneath the sheets to presumably pleasure him further.

Suigetsu groans, tips his head back against the headboard. “It’ll help relieve the pressure from that stick up your ass.”

Sasuke leaves before he is exposed to anything traumatizing—he has had enough of that to last a million lifetimes, he thinks.

Typical Suigetsu, wasting away his time indulging in frivolous things. Not that Sasuke is a stranger to those sorts of _endeavors_ —he is very much male and though he likes to pretend at superiority, he still has those male needs. Even so, he has more important matters, a heavier burden, than most to distract himself with such base desires.

Unbidden, his thoughts go to his most recent encounter: she was pretty enough, with big doe eyes and a slim frame. Her body lacked muscle, just taut skin over hard bone and though she cut a seductive figure, he made an effort to be gentler so as not to bruise or break and that alone dampened the mood.

Sasuke scowls.

It _has_ been a few weeks—

 _No_.

If he has idle time, he will train.

* * *

“I swear it gets colder and colder every second,” Sakura mumbles, tugging her cloak tighter. “Do you actually get used to this?”

Nine shakes her head, says nothing. She is careful with both her words and her actions but Sakura detects an intelligence behind Nine’s propriety, an awareness of _something_ that Sakura has thus far been unable to pin down.

After meeting with the medics on staff and designating each available pair of hands to various tasks (that being, data gathering and clinical notes), she is intent on accomplishing the only other task at hand as swiftly as possible: working with and reporting to the second-in-command.

The Head Medic had assured her that Uchiha Sasuke knows the details of each and every samurai’s actions prior to falling ill, he was, afterall, leading the traveling party from Iwa.

This news surprises her. Sasuke had been there? At the site of the attack that she and her team scouted? The blood spilled—was it from his blade? Did he defend the samurai under his watch with the same loyalty he used to when he defended _team seven?_ Does he believe Konoha is behind the attack?

Sakura forces herself not to dwell on these things; whether or not she gets answers does not change her objective.

The training rooms are deep in the labyrinth of the samurai wing. The entire sect is winding and dark and reminds her far-too much of the Sound fortress—she quells those thoughts, quieting her nerves. That was a lifetime ago, she was a different person back then.

Nine hesitates before the door to the Uchiha’s preferred sparring room. The handmaid inclines her head, prompting Sakura to enter.

So Sakura does just that. “Sorry to disrupt your training, Lieutenant Uchiha, but I have some matters to—”

It happens within a half a breath.

There is Sasuke, exactly where she is told she will find him. And there is a half-naked woman, lying on her back in the middle of the chamber. The over-large coat pooling around their joined hips does little to spare either person their dignity.

The woman’s legs are propped on Sasuke’s shoulders and his arms brace on either side of her head to stabilize himself as he pumps deep into her core—

His dark gaze finds wide jade eyes and time stills.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out!”

Sakura does not need to be told twice. She immediately steps backwards through the threshold and shuts the door, pressing her back against it. The image of a bare Sasuke—broad shoulders, defined arms, sweat-matted chest—burns in her mind.

Beside her, Nine cannot seem to regain composure of her gaping mouth.

Sakura reaches over to shut it for her, but there is nothing to be done about the handmaid’s furious blush. It is the first time Sakura has seen Nine so caught off-guard, and if Sakura was not just as red, she might laugh. The heat in her cheeks says otherwise, however.

The door flies open and Sakura spins around in time to avoid falling into a bare-chested Sasuke.

“Don’t you know how to knock?” he growls, eyes filled with absolute loathing.

“I—“

“Don’t you have _doors_ in Tea Country?”

Sakura straightens, dully ignoring the fact that he is very naked beneath the cloak held oh-so-casually around his middle. “You should have locked the door!” she quips. Then, because her face is _burning_ and his glare is _maddening_ , she prods his chest. “And these are the _training rooms!_ How am I to know that you use them for _other services?”_

He catches her wrist, unflappable even at his most indiscreet. “Training rooms are dangerous. You should always knock. A stray weapon could have come hurtling in your direction—”

Sakura snorts. “The only thing in danger here is ‘decency’.” She tugs herself free from his hold—“I suggest you finish up your business so you can deal with matters required of the second-in-command.”—and storms away.

If her tone is harsh, then let it be due to embarrassment and surprise and nothing more.

The sound of a door slamming echoes behind her.

Sakura quickens her pace.

.

“It’s so cold,” Sakura mutters for the umpteenth time. Silence falls between them, and though Nine has never been particularly talkative, the quiet unnerves Sakura more than she cares to admit.

(It is not at all because with every step she finds herself recalling the image of Uchiha Sasuke with dark hair plastered to his face, sweat trickling down his neck, eyes blown in the throes of—)

“And why are the med ward’s walls made of metal?” the woman continues as they reach the sick bay, filling the space in her head with idle conversation. “It keeps this entire chamber that much colder. Everywhere else is stone or wood.”

Nine, who has recuperated much quicker, tilts her head, her braid falling off her shoulder. “For the medicine,” she answers, “they need to be kept at colder temperatures.”

“Why not keep them in another room altogether? The patients must be freezing—”

“This fortress may seem large, but there is only so much carving into mountain sides we can do before the mountains retaliate,” Nine answers, voice the tinkling of soft bells.

Sakura visibly relaxes, finally releases her frustration, and takes a seat on a stool. “Nine,” she says, pausing from emptying the journals and books and scrolls from her bag, “did you just make a joke?”

The handmaid ducks her head and excuses herself from the ward.

Sakura, eyes perusing the notes she had taken the day prior, grins.

* * *

Needless to say, Uchiha Sasuke is distracted after the interruption and orders the young woman currently half-dressed off to her quarters.

She pouts prettily, coaxing him to return with her husky voice and shapely breasts. He fixes her with a glare that leaves no room for argument and she picks herself up off the floor at once. She avoids his eyes as she properly dresses.

A glance down at his form coerces a groan from the shinobi and, with sheer force of will he makes himself forget:

the way soft skin brushed against his neck and the way her manicured nails scraped into his back and the feel of her around him and the way the doctor’s eyes went wide with shock as she stood there, witnessing him enjoy the most carnal of pleasures and he ignores the way just that bit of exposure makes him inexplicably excited—

_What the hell is he thinking?_

His consort moves towards the exit but Sasuke’s hand snaps out to grab her arm, pinning her against the door. He drops the cloak from his hips, exposing a job left unfinished. The woman offers a sultry smile but Sasuke does not even notice, already burying his face into the crook of her neck, imagining wide green eyes and the soft, inviting gape of the doctor’s parted lips.

He pretends she is there watching every thrust, every moan escaping the woman’s throat. Then he imagines her instead—the civilian doctor who can look into his eyes without flinching. He imagines her grasping his shoulders, grinding against his movements. His thoughts are muddled, confused, but it doesn’t matter because just the prospect of having been caught is enough to get him exactly where he needs to go.

If he is an exhibitionist he never knew it, but as he rides down from the high of release, forehead pressed into the door frame, he wonders if he’s always been this way or if it is a realization borne from being intruded upon. In any case, this is something new he learns about himself, something that is frustratingly enticing.

A lazy flick of his wrist opens the door and, without a word, he makes it very clear the woman is to leave. She does so, adjusting her kimono. The disgruntled look on her face betrays her lack of satisfaction. Normally, he would ride out the sensations until both parties are content but, as the doctor said, he has business to attend to.

When he arrives in the med-ward, he finds her hunched over a cot and furiously writing in her journal. She glances up as if somehow alerted to his presence. The expression on her face is surprisingly familiar in that moment: the expectation in her brows, the automatic quirk of her mouth as if she is about to smile or say his name in some companionable greeting, and her eyes (those goddamn green eyes that were horrified in seeing him earlier) make something like heat coil in his gut—

“Take care of your business, then?”

Her lofty tone chases away any and all sensual thoughts he might have towards her. Sasuke scowls as he approaches, answering with a prim, “Yes.”

A flip of her journal and she turns her body away from the patient on the cot, squaring her shoulders to face him. “Well, I’m glad.” (Sasuke gets the impression that she is not ‘glad’ at all.) “But now that you’re finally here,” (the Uchiha rolls his eyes) “I should tell you what I’ve found about this illness spreading among _your_ ranks.”

Sasuke resists the urge to repeat what she has just said in a higher pitch. That would not be dignified.

The doctor lifts her notebook, flipping through too-many pages, and begins:

“I haven’t done much work as of yet and tests are ongoing but it seems this disease finds a way to block the chakra system, rendering the person unable to use it.” Green eyes glance over the top of the journal to meet his gaze. “I’m sure you’re aware of that though, no?”

After he explains to her exactly what happened prior to the men falling ill, Sasuke listens to her prattle on with medical jargon that he will never admit he cannot follow. Eventually, he slams a hand down on her precious journal, trapping it between his palm and her knee. “Cut to the chase.”

To her credit, she does not startle at his outburst. The doctor frowns, pries her notebook from beneath his hand, and stands to match his height as best she can. “The chakra system has been blocked, yes, but the blood is still pumping through their veins just…” she pauses, nipping at her lip, “...much slower. Causing an almost stasis effect on the body.”

“And?” Sasuke prompts, looking down his nose at her.

“I don’t know how to recharge the chakra. I imagine it to be similar to dried blood. ‘Like dissolves like.’ Liquid will energize the dried blood, letting it run with a fluid consistency again. Maybe if there was a way to, I don’t know, do the same with chakra—”

“With more chakra?” he supplies, automatically stepping closer to the patient on the cot, hand poised at the ready.

“Well yes, but _no!”_ the doctor exclaims, grabbing his wrist before he can do anything more. “Are you a trained medic?” she demands angrily, rhetorically, and there goes her eyes flashing with a dangerous intensity that does not match her civilian pedigree. “Do you know how to properly control your chakra to a medical nin’s specificity?”

Sasuke is not even listening, too distracted by her hand: calloused with work he doubts a civilian doctor would ever encounter. And her reflexes? He barely registered that she moved, how did she snatch his wrist so quickly? His gaze jumps from her grip to her eyes—they are so green, so angry, and so _familiar_.

As suddenly as she grabs him, she releases him, drops her gaze.

(Something in the back of his mind twitches: clasped hands, burning agony, a faded memory from a long time ago.)

“I’ll have to ask one of the medic-nin to attempt it,” the doctor says, irritation seeping into her voice.

Sasuke frowns. “I can do it,” he insists, “just tell me how.”

Her head snaps up—there’s that fire in her eyes again and a part of him wants to let it burn him from the inside. “You can’t just,” she flails, gestures aimlessly at nothing, _“do it.”_

But the Uchiha only arches a brow. “Trust me, I can. Tell me what to do.”

She wants to argue, he can see it in the pink that fills her cheeks, in the way her mouth opens and closes and opens again, sharpening her tongue for a barb. He realizes he wants her to argue, wants her to rip him apart, to _dare_ to rip him apart, wants her to draw blood and see exactly what she is capable of.

Instead, she exhales, releases the building pressure.

“Fine.”

She goes over the theory of it and, Sasuke thinks, she would make a great teacher. The way she describes chakra is absolutely spot-on, peculiar for a civilian who does not know the feel of it through her system. All signs point to the fact that _she must not be a civilian_ , but he cannot get a feel for her signature at all, not even a hint, and even if there _was_ just a smidge of chakra within her, that is not unheard of in civilians. Hadn’t she said her great grandfather was a shinobi?

“Gently,” she encourages, watching him place his hand into a basin of water. His chakra submerges as he pushes his palm beneath the surface, the goal, the doctor says, is to avoid disrupting the water. No ripples. It takes a few tries but eventually he masters it and he inwardly preens at her praise.

When he tries to turn to the patient on the cot, she stops him with a glare. “You’re not ready yet.”

“In the time it’s taken for you to coach me through this, you could have gotten someone else to do it three times over.”

The doctor tilts her head. “ _Trust me_ ,” she drawls in a voice that is much too high to be a passable impersonation of him thank-you-very-much. “ _I can._ Who said that again?” she inquires, tapping her chin and looking around the ward. “Oh, right!” she exclaims, looking directly at him. “It was _you._ ”

Sasuke glares.

She glares right back.

“Should I find a medic-nin?” the handmaid inquires from the door.

Before the doctor can answer, Sasuke snaps: “ _No.”_

They are at it for another half hour.

She gives him menial tasks and tests and he passes them one by one. Outwardly, he scoffs at her wasting time with this nonsense (nevermind that he insists he will do this, they don’t need a medic nin, for the hundredth time!). Privately, he relishes in her one-on-one teaching method.

There is something indescribable about the cadence of her voice, the warmth her proximity brings. Oddly enough it feels like _home_ and that thought startles Sasuke out of focus. He drops whatever he is using his chakra to hold on to.

She catches the syringe without batting an eye, replacing it on the table with a gentle command of ‘ _again_.’

Sasuke does as he is told for the _sole purpose_ of proving that he _can do this_ and not because she asks it of him. His pride is on the line, okay? He will sit here and do whatever this civilian doctor requires of him and then, when she deems him ready, he will show her that _he can do anything_ —

“Look!” she breathes, a genuine smile on her face.

The Uchiha looks and there on the cot is a man whose color warms from pale to pink, whose chest rises and falls with ease, whose eyeballs move beneath closed lids as though in a dream.

“We did it!”

There is something more than satisfaction in her voice, there is awe, there is sincerity and she is clearly lost in her pride because she rises from her seat and embraces him.

Sasuke tenses (and does not notice that her dark hair is soft and smells slightly of sweet licorice and lavender).

A throat clearing draws both their attention to the door where Nine is trying her best to appear nonplussed, but the widening of her eyes undermines her best efforts.

The doctor immediately drops her arms, moves away to put proper space between them. “Yes, Nine?”

The handmaid’s eyes jump between her lady and Sasuke. “General Mifune requests a meeting with Uchiha-sama.”

Sasuke does not glance the doctor’s way, but he can _feel_ her staring at the side of his face as he nods and takes his leave. Upon passing the threshold, the handmaid dips her head forward.

The doctor’s _Thank you, Uchiha-san_ sounds like music.

* * *

Sakura lies in bed that evening, studying the images splayed across her ceiling.

The ongoing chaos outside streams shadows along her walls while rain drips down her window. Normally, she is unnerved by such storms, but there is something soothing about the drumming that assuages her fears.

It also keeps her from recalling events from earlier that day: walking in on her childhood love buried hilt deep in another woman. A part of her feels that she should have been angrier, but her interest was simply piqued.

Haruno Sakura is not shy around sex or nudity for that matter; life as a shinobi necessitates such dalliances. She had, however, not ever seen _other people_ have sex before, and Sasuke had looked every bit as tantalizing as he had in her many day dreams.

Dark hair flush against his forehead, sweat dotting his temples, his neck, before dripping in rivulets along the muscles beneath taut skin. The look of intensity and purpose in coal black eyes, clouded over with pleasure and the promise of something utterly _explosive_ —

_Stop it._

There is no room for him in her life now.

Even so, it is near impossible to forget the way his abdominal muscles flexed as he pistoned against the woman’s hips, the way his triceps popped as he braced himself.

Sakura sighs at the memory, picturing it, picturing him.

The warmth of his skin when she grabbed his wrist in the medic ward—

_No. No, no, no!_

Her eyes peel open then, set in a permanent glare on the ceiling. She will not waste her thoughts on the Uchiha. Not anymore.

Lightning flashes and she sucks in a breath. It beckons her to admire the vastly furnished chambers before submerging her to complete darkness again. It is like a game: how much can she see and memorize before it disappears?

A rustic mirror hangs on the far wall. A dresser carved like the curving silhouette of a stretching cat. An armoire that nearly reaches the vaulted ceiling. Crown molding that mirrors waves. A shadow standing by the book case—

Sakura leaps out of bed but is immediately cast into darkness.

The intruder lunges at her, sword raised.

She moves with practiced grace, easily avoiding the strike and instead delivering a faintly chakra-assisted blow of her own to the back of their head that sends the culprit flying. The body hits the wall shoulder first and crumples to the ground, leaving a large dent at the point of contact.

 _Shit_.

A billion methods of avoiding her assailant races through her head: scream for help, genjutsu, knock him out with medical jutsu.

But no. She had to go ahead and leave an obvious show of strength.

 _Idiot_. She is an idiot.

She hears footsteps in the hall, muted voices getting louder, nearer.

Without wasting another second, she races to the intruder and rams herself against the wall, making sure to bruise. She hauls the body (it is a man, she realizes) atop her form and carefully bumps his forehead against the hilt of his sword before finally crying out “ _Help!”_

To her surprise, Sasuke is the first to appear at her door (why is he not in the samurai wing?), followed quickly by Mifune and various handmaids, Nine among them.

In Mifune’s hand is a flickering torch; it sheds a light that pushes the darkness away just enough to reveal most of the room.

Sakura suddenly feels on display in her nightgown. The bed sheets are so thick and warm, it is a feat to be wearing anything at all! She can feel redness pool in her face, but she stamps out the embarrassment and adopts an appropriate look of fear and contrition.

“What happened here?” the general barks, stalking into the room and grabbing the unconscious assaulter by the neck of his shirt. “Uchiha, help her up.” Mifune is a fortress in his own right, height rivaling Sasuke’s and with shoulders that are broader, more menacing.

Sakura squirms, appearing appropriately shaken, and holds her arms across her chest.

Sasuke stands before her, extends a hand.

“I was in bed,” she whispers, voice failing her not from the attack but from the heat of the Uchiha’s palm when she takes it, “when he entered and...I don’t know, he tried to attack me.” Her fingers curl against his, she squeezes because that is what a terrified woman would do, right? Belatedly, she realizes she is trembling and it is not because she is afraid of the intruder. “I tried to get away but he bull-rushed me into the wall and luckily he hit his head on the hilt of his sword.”

The look Sasuke gives her is filled with disbelief, but he holds his tongue.

Mifune makes a show of fussing over Sakura, ordering a handmaid to fetch medical staff as he shoves the unconscious man Sasuke’s direction, prompting him to let her hand go. The general drapes his coat across her shoulders (it is exceedingly large) as his medical team arrives and assesses her condition.

In the end, they report some deep bone bruising but nothing more and clear her to remain in her chambers.

The intruder on the other hand…

Sasuke places the body onto a stretcher for the staff to return to the sick-bay, or prison. Sakura does not know which.

Mifune is livid. “How did this traitor get so far with his weapons? Why did nobody stop him? Where was the patrol on this floor?” He continues his barrage of demands as he follows his staff out of Sakura’s room, intent on getting to the bottom of this.

Then it is just Haruno Sakura and Uchiha Sasuke and she cannot fathom how fitting it is that they are left in the dark.

“Yoshida Hiro,” Sasuke says without prompt. “The man you worked on earlier today.”

“What?” she whispers, eyes widening at the news. “The first patient?”

A nod.

“But—”

“I think we have more pressing matters,” Sasuke interrupts, taking two striding steps to close the distance between them. The way he watches her fills her simultaneously with dread and _heat_.

“Hiro was hit in the back of the head as well,” the Uchiha declares, dark eyes devouring her expression.

 _Shit._ She should have healed him!

“Not just the front.”

His eyes are calculating, watching for any flicker of deceit.

(Shit _shit shit.)_

“If he had run into the hilt of his sword when he rushed you,”

_Distract him. Distract him!_

“then when and what brought about the blow to the back of his—?”

Sakura kisses him.

.

✾


	3. training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did someone say senseless make-outs? no?

✾

.

 _Distract him_.

Anything to stop his talking even for a moment, anything to give Sakura enough time to come up with an excuse, a reason for his rightful suspicion.

 _Distract him,_ she thinks as she grabs fistfuls of his tunic and crushes her mouth to his, body tipping over as she loses balance. But it hardly matters because Sakura _knows him_ and she knows he will catch her.

Surprisingly, he responds in kind, so enthusiastic that Sakura wonders if he hasn’t finished his business with that woman afterall. 

Sasuke shifts his weight to account for her body pressed against him, arms hooking around her waist, fingers digging into the fur coat Mifune lent her. Even through the robes, Sasuke’s fingertips blaze across her skin.

Her day dreams come flooding back and Sakura takes his kisses with embarrassing hunger, slanting over his mouth to taste more—just a little more. And he matches her advancements, spinning so that her back hits the wall, molds against the dent, and flattens her against it with his strong frame. 

When his lips leave hers, she begins to protest but is silenced with a growl that thrums through Sasuke’s chest. His kisses expertly wander to the base of her neck, massaging along the column of her throat. His hands venture beneath the coat, ghosting over the soft fabric of her nightgown and Sakura is victim to his scorching fingertips, melts against his hand, helpless and pliable as wax.

In a fluid motion he hikes her up, hands supporting the back of firm thighs and he is flush against her, so much so that if he removes his grip from the curve of her ass, Sakura knows she would remain suspended off the floor.

(Sasuke takes her in: the salty-sweet beads of sweat along her throat, the sharp edge of her collar bone, the slick heat between her legs.

He revels in the way her chest is crushed against the smooth expanse of his torso, the strength of her thighs as they wrap around his waist, the deftness of her fingers as they tangle through his hair, the gasp that escapes her kiss swollen lips.)

He grazes exploratory fingers over the gauze fabric at the apex of her thighs—fabric that can easily be moved to the side.

His fingers tease her, move in a circular motion over the delicate cloth covering her warmth, and she scratches into his back a story of frustration and need.

“S-Sasuke—”

“Unbelievable!” 

The voice comes from down the hall and the duo spring apart as thudding footsteps grow nearer and nearer. Mifune appears at the door that is still ajar.

By then, Sasuke is quite a few steps away from her and Sakura leans back against the wall, tugging the fur coat tightly about her frame.

“Lieutenant, you’re still here?” Mifune says with mild surprise.

Sasuke does not hesitate. “It took a bit for Okura to calm down enough to recount exactly what happened tonight,” he answers as calmly (as disinterestedly) as if he is watching paint dry.

Mifune glances at Sakura—breath harsh, face flushed—and his gaze softens. “You’re welcome to stay in my quarters tonight if you’re uncomfortable remaining here. 

The look in his eyes is genuine, but there is amusement in the curve of his mouth, secrets behind slanted lips. 

Somewhere in Sakura’s periphery, Sasuke shifts.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she answers.

Mifune nods. “As you wish. But I’ll risk no more of this. You are far too necessary. You revived Hiro, afterall—”

 _And he tried to kill me_ , Sakura thinks wryly.

“So you will be formally trained in self defense. Uchiha Sasuke,” the general announces, gaze finding his lieutenant. “You will train her.”

Sakura opens her mouth to protest just as Sasuke answers: “Of course, General.”

Her eyes widen as the Uchiha _bows_. He _fucking bows_. 

“Natsuko,” Mifune says gently, “try to get some sleep.”

Sakura can only nod, dumbstruck, at the series of events playing out before her.

“Lieutenant? Shall we leave the lady to rest?”

A moment’s hesitation, then the Uchiha follows after the retreating general.

Sakura stares after him, wondering just what she has gotten herself into.

* * *

She was fire in his grasp—burning, thriving, dangerous.

Sasuke knows she kissed him only to delay his train of thought. _Of course he knows_. But he would not easily set aside the conversation she unexpectedly (wonderfully) interrupted. If she thinks she has successfully made him forget, well. She’s wrong.

He demolishes any ideas in his head about how enjoyable it had been to have her in his hands, how inexplicably delicious she tasted, how easy it was to fit up against her and spare no other thought as to what they were doing and why. 

In that moment there was nothing more than fire licking gas—an explosion of ecstasy.

No woman has ever triggered such a reaction from him. And from a _kiss_ , no less. _A distraction kiss._

How did she side-track him so thoroughly? Why did he so willingly indulge?

Perhaps it was the thrill of the moment, the chance of getting caught, the possibility of prying eyes, that drove him to accept her gesture. Not only accept it, but return it tenfold. That’s it. That must be it. He is an exhibitionist. It’s all just new, exciting. It has nothing to do with the civilian per se.

Sasuke scowls as he moves through the kata of his shinobi years, not bothering with samurai forms. He needs something familiar, something he has relied on for years, something second nature; he needs control, a sense of grounding.

Especially after the flash of spontaneity and absolute pleasure that makes his insides— _Stop it._ He will not allow himself to lose focus. Okura Natsuko is a key player in Mifune’s game, not some serving girl he can exploit for his release.

His movements are quick but restrained, never wasting energy he doesn’t need to. Sasuke moves from one form to another with fluid grace; easy as breathing. But breathing is difficult when strong legs are wrapped around him, when a fervent mouth nibbles on his ear and breathy sighs slip past—

Sasuke abolishes the thought, continuing his kata with iron will.

Even so, as he slides from one form to the next, his movements are restricted by the very distracting erection fighting against the hem of his pants.

.

Breakfast the following morning is a tense affair.

Well. Perhaps not for General Mifune who fusses over the civilian doctor with nauseating attention.

Sasuke sets his soup bowl down with more force than necessary, the resounding ‘thud’ draws his companions from their conversation.

He ignores the way green eyes survey him, reaches with his chopsticks to help himself to some fish.

A beat passes, and Mifune engages the woman in another mundane topic—her hair is so luscious, _velvet chocolate_ the general coos.

Sasuke does not bother to look at how the doctor is handling this praise. Probably licking it up. _Licking it up the way her tongue lapped the caves of your ear—_

“Right, Lieutenant?”

Sasuke blinks, looks up from the bowl of race he is glaring at. 

They are both looking at him, expectant. He _is not_ blushing at being so caught off-guard. “I’m sorry, what?”

(Why the hell does the doctor look so goddamn amused? What the hell is so _amusing?)_

Mifune quirks a brow, the motion somehow reprimanding and teasing at the same time. “You’ll be ready to start Natsu-san’s training after breakfast, yes?”

 _Natsu._ Nicknames already?

“Actually, General, I was thinking,” Sasuke begins, only to be cut off. 

“I trust only you with this task, Lieutenant Uchiha.”

Sasuke shuts his mouth.

“If Uchiha-san feels his time could be better spent elsewhere, then perhaps someone else could help me. I’m just a civilian, after all. I hardly need the _expertise_ of your second,” the doctor suggests.

Irritation simmers in Sasuke’s chest as Mifune clearly considers her words. 

Oh, the general will listen to some insipid civilian but not his own second-in-command?

Sasuke’s gaze jumps to said doctor. She blinks back, owlish and innocent. But Sasuke saw fire in her eyes the other night, and he sees the embers glowing in her stare even now. Keen, astute. She does not want to be alone with him, she does not want to be at his mercy. _What is she hiding?_ Dark eyes narrow. 

“Hm, maybe Kaizen—?” Mifune begins.

“It’s fine,” Sasuke cuts in. “I’ll do it.”

Mifune hides his smirk behind a sip of tea.

.

“You are small,” he states frankly, sizing up the young woman standing before him. “Force won’t be on your side, but speed will.” 

A twitch at the edge of her mouth betrays her desire to grin. She controls it at once, but Sasuke sees it and scowls.

“Is something funny?”

“No, Lieutenant Uchiha, sir,” the doctor deadpans, all amusement leaving her face.

(Except her eyes, Sasuke notes. Her eyes are what gives her away.)

Sasuke moves around her, taking in every inch of her slender frame, mentally noting the looseness of her tunic, the utter lack of anything resembling muscle.

 _But when your fingers probed beneath the coat there was hardness along her abdominals, her glutes_ —

Sasuke obliterates the thought. “Utilize that advantage. Any man that tries to overcome you will consider you weak and use his strength—” (the woman snorts, a sharp and derisive exhale) “—to subdue you.” 

The doctor stands stock-still as he circles, a predator his prey. He can see in the tension of her hands that she is fighting the urge to curl them into fists. Well, she’s got some fight in her at least. 

He knows that as he lectures her on the basics of taijutsu, she is distracted, only half-listening. He knows because his mind wanders as well: to devoured kisses in the dark, heated touches that singe beneath skin all the way to the marrow of bone.

She meets his gaze. “And what should I do then?”

Sasuke sighs, motion imperceptible, and adjusts her into a beginner’s defensive stance. “At any moment you could be attacked and it’s difficult to think under that sort of pressure. In this form,” he explains, lifting her arms to guard her torso, “you are protecting your center but given the freedom of movement.” His foot slips between her legs, nudging her feet apart. 

To demonstrate, he steps back, adopts the same stance, and pivots.

“You’ll need this sort of fluid motion to avoid an attack,” he instructs. “Now you try.”

“Like this?” the doctor inquires, lifting her arms too wide and scooting her feet closer together.

Sasuke fights the overwhelming urge to slap a hand to his forehead. 

“See this?” he prompts, throwing a slow-motion punch towards her stomach. “You’re leaving yourself completely open for a blow. And this,” he continues, nudging her shoulder and watching her stumble. “Your feet are too close together. Your center of gravity isn’t dispersed for maximum effectiveness. You need to square your stance, like this—” Sasuke adjusts her arms and, with a tap of his foot against her in-step, widens her feet. “Better,” he declares. _But not good_. “Now show me how you pivot.”

She does. (The moron puts her weight on her _heel._ What kind of idiot _does_ that?)

Sasuke smothers the insults, eye twitching at the effort. “No,” he grinds out with a modicum of restraint. “You pivot on the _ball_ of your foot. The _ball_ is—”

“I know what ‘the ball of your foot’ means,” she snaps.

“Right. _Doc_.” His tone carries all the haughtiness of a twelve-year-old genin from once upon a time and he cannot even bring himself about to care. “But just in case there are _others here_ who are unaware what I mean—” Sasuke demonstrates a pivot once more, ignoring the insulted shock on the doctor’s face (he relishes in it, actually, getting under her skin, though he refuses to linger over-long on _why)_. “ _That_ is how you pivot.”

She gathers herself, tries again. 

She moves from one foot to the other and Sasuke wonders how she has managed to survive in the world for so long. Even for a civilian it is atrocious—the woman has all the grace of a child freshly off a rapidly spinning carousel.

As she flounders across the length of the training chamber, Sasuke steps in and catches her shoulders mid-pivot. She wobbles on the ball of a single foot despite his sure hands. 

“Okura. You—” are about as graceful as a fish out of water “—are terrible at this.”

He can see the genuine affront in her eyes.

“No, keep your foot up,” he orders as she makes a move to stand on two legs. “Go higher on the ball of your other.” Holding her steady when she complies, he swivels her, guiding her shoulders. “The movement should be smooth. Fluid. Minimal effort. Like this,” he says as he moves her shoulders first left then right so that she spins on the ball of one foot. “Feel the difference?”

She nods. 

She’s...red. Is she breathing?

Sasuke lets her go and she lets out a shuddering exhale. He ignores it. “Good. Now do it again.”

She does.

This time, Sasuke notes with mild fascination, the doctor hardly seems to be trying. Her pivots are precise and languid—her face on the other hand is clearly focused. Perhaps... _too focused._ Pivoting is not that hard. Granted, she was a disaster earlier—

 _Pivoting is not that hard_.

Sasuke scrutinizes.

When she reaches the far wall, she pauses, relaxes her shoulders, takes a breath. He gives her only a moment before he moves to stand directly behind her, so near that his breath sifts through dark hair, warms the nape of her neck.

“Again,” the Uchiha commands. “This time, avoid me.”

The doctor does not tense at his sudden proximity, only turns around to meet his stare: effervescent green against unrelenting charcoal.

She widens her stance, plants a foot, and spins.

They move around each other so that his back is to the nearest wall and he slowly comes towards her. She dodges with a simple swivel to her left. He pushes. She pivots. He advances and she retreats. He picks up the pace; she responds in kind—no hesitation, no awkward misstep. It is a dance, perhaps the only kind Uchiha Sasuke has ever known. 

In her gaze he can see a well-guarded secret, a cunning that lies just below the surface of spring-green and sunshine. There are razor-sharp edges in her eyes, in her stare, a deadly look sharpened only by bloodshed.

When her shoulder-blades meet a wall, they stop.

“You’re a quick study,” he accuses.

She lowers her eyes. “I’ve always been a quick study,” she says. Perhaps she is telling the truth. Sasuke can’t tell when she’s looking down. It’s infuriating. “My great grandfather—”

He knows he is standing too near, he can practically feel her body heat through her layers, through the minimal space between them. If he dips his head forward, his nose would brush her cheek.

“Was a shinobi, you’ve said,” Sasuke finishes.

At that she startles, glances up, and he takes in everything in her eyes:

Bewilderment, longing, a shyness that does not reconcile with the strength behind hardened determination, and—

The doctor clears her throat, lifts her gaze to the ceiling. Pink creeps along her cheeks.

Sasuke follows suit, takes a half-step away, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall by her head. “Okay well, maybe you’ll be able to handle some actual defensive moves.” He draws away from her, stands in the center of the room and motions for her to follow. “Remember, the easiest way to avoid an attack is to evade, but for when you have no choice but to engage, these are the most efficient moves at your disposal.”

As he goes over the basic defensive stances and forms, neither person mentions what transpired the previous night.

* * *

Sakura adjusts alarmingly well to her new routine: breakfast with Mifune and Sasuke, checking on the patients, training, and dinner in her room with Nine (who took some convincing to even join Sakura on her bed and _eat the same food)_ as she goes over her medical notes. 

It is all too easy, too…

_normal._

Sakura tries not to dwell on why that is, though she suspects a brooding, dark haired Uchiha has plenty to do with it. Is it so terrible that she looks forward to seeing him every day?

He does not speak during breakfast but she can sense his stare. So what if he’s only doing so because he’s suspicious? It’s the kind of attention her younger self always vied for. So what if she’s preening just a little bit, under his scrutiny? 

Haruno Sakura has become a strong, independent medic nin, impressive in her own right. She can indulge a bit in this reversal of roles wherein Uchiha Sasuke is intrigued by _her_ , okay?

Besides, it is only temporary.

Sakura does not allow herself to linger on that fact, instead adopting her civilian persona with gusto. She has befriended Nine, though it took some prodding. To Sakura’s delight, her handmaid is quite intelligent, picking up on Sakura’s notes and asking questions. Nine observes her in the med-ward, takes notes as Sakura dictates. More than a handmaid, Nine is her shadow. She can be so much more than a servant, and perhaps this interest in medicine will be just what Nine needs to realize that.

When they visit Hiro in his cell, the man is catatonic. He sits, slumped on the floor, wrists shackled overhead. The chain hangs heavy over his shoulders.

Sakura can recall the way he looked when he was on the patient cot: pale but youthful, strong.

But now? Now he is gaunt as if he has not been eating. His pallor is troubling. His breathing is labored.

He has not spoken, has not responded to any threats or queries.

Sakura is afraid she fried his system but upon closer inspection she determines all is running as it should. She cannot find what is causing this reaction, this behavior. The medic sighs, shines a light into one of his eyes and dictates her findings. At her side, Nine diligently writes—

Something like a tinkling bell chimes and Sakura has only a moment to frown in thought before Yoshida Hiro, previously slumped on the ground, _lunges at her_.

Sakura acts without thinking, grabbing Nine’s arm and quickly retreating out of his range.

Guards just outside the cell rush in to restrain him.

Sakura stares as Hiro growls, rages, entirely out of his mind. If she believed in zombies that is precisely what she would call him, but she doesn’t. She knows there is an _explanation_ for his behavior. There must be.

“ _I know who you are—_ ” he roars, voice raw from disuse, “ _I know who you are and this will be the end of all that you know—all that you love—”_

One of the samurai guards hits him over the head and Hiro falls limp, unconscious.

Sakura stares.

“Are you alright, Natsuko-sama?” Nine asks.

The medic blinks, nods. “Yes, fine,” she whispers.

“Perhaps we should head to your training,” the handmaid hedges and Sakura nods again, runs a hand through her dark hair. 

“Yeah that’s a good idea,” she agrees. “I’ll be a bit early but there’s nothing wrong with extra...practice.”

.

“Natsuko. You’re late.”

Sakura scowls at his distractingly handsome face. “What do you mean I’m late? I’m early. I’m half an hour early.”

The look he gives her is _so Sasuke_ that something in her chest twists at the sight of it. “You’re ten minutes _late_.” He does not ask for a reason, nor does he give her a chance to explain, swiftly walking to the center of the room and shedding his _juban_ and really is that necessary—?

He attacks.

The punch is quick for a civilian but for Sakura it is like watching someone punch under water. She meets his fist with her forearm, the contact indirect so the brunt of his force slides to the side, narrowly missing her left ear.

Sasuke doesn’t give her a chance to recover, instantly following with his other fist.

She deflects it with a straight locked elbow and a flat palm, the impact sliding down to her right. His whole body moves with the motion and Sakura takes the opportunity to raise her left knee, aiming for his temple.

But he is Uchiha Sasuke and he rolls into his momentum, disappearing from her attack’s route. He fans his leg out beneath her, knocking her off her feet.

Sakura growls as she _lets herself hit the floor_ and glares at the devastating smirk on Sasuke’s face.

“You need to be faster,” he admonishes.

She scoffs and is up in the blink of an eye, resuming her defensive stance.

Sakura waits for Sasuke to advance—he always does.

This time is no different, he swings his fist, expecting her to block, and quickly follows with a kick.

Sakura drops to a single knee and, bracing herself against the ground, sweeps out her free leg.

He jumps over it, but she launches herself up from her crouch in an attempt to shoulder him in the gut as he comes down from his evasion.

Instead of accepting her blow, he shoves her to the side, redirecting both their trajectories.

She lands on all fours, skids away. “Fast enough for you, Sasuke?”

His mouth is set in a scowl but there is no mistaking the amusement that dances across his eyes.

In a flash he closes the distance between them, fist flying out of nowhere. 

Sakura can only lean away to avoid it. She is not properly grounded and civilian reflexes are not quick enough to catch this fall so she prepares herself to meet the floor except it does not come. Uchiha Sasuke hooks an arm around her waist. 

“Don’t get cocky. I’m obviously holding back.”

His hold is solid, warm, and Sakura purses her lips to avoid saying something to betray her true skill.

Instead, she pries away from him, telling her heart to calm the fuck down before it beats right out of her ribcage and flops onto the floor, dammit! “Then don’t hold back,” she challenges in spite of herself, “maybe I’ll surprise you.”

Sasuke blinks, exhales—“Fine.”—and vanishes.

Sakura is on immediate alert, gaze jumping around the training quarters: left, right, behind, up dow—

He emerges from beneath her just as she leaps backwards to avoid his attack.

Sasuke does not give her a break, spinning mid-air to aim a kick at her head. 

Sakura pivots to evade and, as his foot arcs past, aims her elbow to his lower back. He braces himself on her head, using her to redirect his landing and avoid her blow.

Without hesitation, he comes at her again, zig-zags to confuse her, and throws a punch.

Sakura inwardly scoffs because _this is so Sasuke_. Showing off. She matches him, blow for blow, dancing around his attacks. His speed is alarming, but not impossible for a civilian to keep up with. It’s certainly a far cry from when they first began these exercises.

He forces her into a corner, she realizes too late. And he’s speeding up. Without her chakra, she cannot keep up.

It is difficult to refrain from meeting each advance. All she can do is scoot back back back and evade evade evade until she is pressed up against the wall once again, unflinching even as Sasuke’s rough, dirtied, bare-knuckled fist freezes mere centimeters from jaw.

The air from his punch shifts the strands of hair that have come loose around her face but she stares right back, unafraid. She is not afraid of him, Sharingan or no Sharingan, crackling lightning or no crackling lightning. She will never be afraid of Uchiha Sasuke, no matter what iteration exists of either of them, no matter what universe, what dimension or reality.

It is a sobering truth.

Sasuke opens his fist and flattens it on the wall, studies her. He leans his head down so their eyes are level. “Who are you?”

“Natsuko,” Sakura breathes, unfaltering and sure in her response.

He does not watch her lips move, does not notice her hands fidget. No, his gaze is trained solely on her eyes. Sakura fights the urge to blink. She knows he does not believe her, does not believe her an _ounce_ but he never challenges it. He never calls her a liar.

Suspicion hangs between them like a veil, tangible in its thickness, providing them both with a sound alibi to avoid the truth and perhaps believe this little lie they allow themselves to hide behind. Allowing the truth to remain somewhere buried deep, deep down because maybe, just made, this little world they’ve created for themselves is exactly what each person needs.

Sakura watches his eyes: smoke-filled abysses of distrust and curiosity. 

“Who are you _really?”_

* * *

Her breath hitches. “Sasuke—”

He is the one to move first this time, to press his mouth to her gasp, to swallow his name on her tongue. He silences her query, laps up her lies because now is not the time to break whatever charade they have put up for the world.

Sasuke does not want to know her identity, does not want to ruin the mystery because that is what draws him to her. 

She is a constant surprise. Her obstinate nature, the intrigue in her eyes—whatever secrets she might divulge, he devours them before she can utter a word, massaging her mouth so thoroughly with his own that her lips swell, plump and soft and rosy and the color suits her, he has half a mind to think.

As quickly as it happens, he stops. Moves a few steps away, arms at his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, but she silences him with a fragile, knowing smile.

“Don’t,” the doctor whispers. She approaches him, deliberately slow in her gait and Sasuke cannot help but think this time he is her prey. Her hand reaches out to him, touches his face. Her fingers card through his forelocks. “I’ve been wanting to do this,” she murmurs, palm catching his jaw and then she rises onto her toes.

The kiss is gentle at first, the first trickles of a storm before devolving to the hurricane that his thoughts become whenever they involve this annoying woman. This _civilian._

Sasuke growls into her kiss, tongue seeking a spar which she instantly obliges. He snakes his arms around her waist, pulls her closer, possessive, exploring the confines of her mouth. A groan escapes at the thought of all the other parts of her he is eager to explore and he pauses for a breath.

She takes full advantage of this and pushes into him, cataloguing every detail of his mouth, her tongue flicking over every part before fighting his own for dominance.

Sasuke only has a moment to think she tastes like apples when her hands claw at his shoulders, down his arms, up along his chest and— _oh fuck_ her palms, soft doctor’s hands, claim the expanse of his torso and call fire through his veins as if the _katon_ is in her blood.

His hands traverse the silhouette of her frame, tracing the curves hidden beneath her over-sized clothes. He wonders at the hard body that meets his exploration; she always seems so lanky in her attire but it is evident, as he shoves the hem of her tunic upwards to expose the defined muscle beneath, that she is _strong_. 

He feels her smirk against his mouth as if she knows what he is thinking. Perhaps she does.

His palms move up to cup each breast through her bra and the resulting sigh of surprise entices him to continue. A finger hooks beneath a strap and he flicks it off her shoulder, releasing one breast to the air. He claims it at once, massages it, coerces a series of the sweetest affirmations from the doctor’s lips.

His other hand escapes into her trousers, memorizing the hills and valleys that make up her back, her ass, the hard muscle of her thighs.

She moans then, and the sound spurs Sasuke to explore more, mouth leaving hers to wander down to her collar.

His hand finds the junction of her thighs and she grinds into it, feels her heat against his palm.

“Natsuko—” he growls, unable to stop her name from escaping, carving the syllables into the skin of her shoulder.

She pulls away, gives him a most devilish grin, before dropping her hand past the waist-band of his pants—her warm, soft hand fists him—

“Sasuke?”

He blinks.

Wide green eyes stare back.

Sasuke frowns, regains his bearings. His hand is flattened along the wall beside her head.

The doctor shifts. “You spaced out just now,” she says, watching him carefully. “Are you okay?”

He straightens up and takes a large step away, grunts in response. He can feel his neck warm up and immediately stalks to grab his shirt.

“Well, I should go,” he hears the doctor say.

From his periphery he can see her peel away from the damp stone wall.

“Thank you for the session.” 

Did she just bow?

Sasuke watches as Natsuko grabs her coat. Nine waits at the the threshold; he nods her way in acknowledgement. The handmaid flushes bright crimson and responds with a bow of her own before retreating down the hall.

“Oh, and Sasuke?”

He scowls at the door to see the infuriating doctor glance back.

“You might want to take a cold shower.”

Sasuke frowns as she takes her leave—is that a dig at his scent? At his appearance—? The twitch of his erection alerts him to the meaning behind her words. He groans and stalks off to do just as she suggested.

Annoying woman.

* * *

 _Shishou, I have been compromised_.

Tsunade scowls at the message, eyes reading and re-reading the scroll. There is no doubt who’s handwriting it is and the courier hawk is clearly from Iron. She worries her lip, a million instances racing through her mind. 

They have not confirmed whether or not Iron is militarizing against other villages, no word regarding Iron’s intention towards Konoha. But them finding Sakura, knowing she is from Leaf, just digs Konoha deeper in their grave.

“Tsunade-sama, you summoned us?”

Her gaze jumps to the door as three jounin arrive. 

The Hokage nods, pushes a scroll across her desk. “I have your next mission.”

Sai reaches forward to take it. “S-rank.”

“S-rank, _yes!”_ Naruto enthuses. “If only Sakura-chan was here—”

Kakashi is the one to notice the tension in Tsunade’s eyes. “We’re going to retrieve her.”

“What do you mean retrieve her? Why would we need to do that?” the blond begins only to be silenced by the troubled look on the godaime’s face.

Tsunade takes a deep breath, then: “Sakura has been found out.”

.

✾


End file.
